Listen. Bloom listened. Richie Goulding listened. And by the door deaf Pat, bald Pat, tipped Pat, listened.
The chords harped slower.
The voice of penance and of grief came slow, embellished tremulous. Ben’s contrite beard confessed: in nomine Domini , in God’s name. He knelt. He beat his hand upon his breast, confessing: mea culpa .
Latin again. That holds them like birdlime. Priest with the communion corpus for those women. Chap in the mortuary, coffin or coffey, corpusnomine . Wonder where that rat is by now. Scrape.
Tap.
They listened: tankards and Miss Kennedy, George Lidwell eyelid well expressive, fullbusted satin. Kernan, Si.
The sighing voice of sorrow sang. His sins. Since easter he had cursed three times. You bitch’s bast. And once at masstime he had gone to play. Once by the churchyard he had passed and for his mother’s rest he had not prayed. A boy. A croppy boy.
Bronze, listening by the beerpull, gazed far away. Soulfully. Doesn’t half know I’m. Molly great dab at seeing anyone looking.
Bronze gazed far sideways. Mirror there. Is that best side of her face? They always know. Knock at the door. Last tip to titivate.
Cockcarracarra.
What do they think when they hear music. Way to catch rattlesnakes. Night Michael Gunn gave us the box. Tuning up. Shah of Persia liked that best. Remind him of home sweet home. Wiped his nose in curtain too. Custom his country perhaps. That’s music too. Not as bad as it